Author's Notes

Inspired almost entirely from the following stanzas of W.H. Auden's poem, "Lady":

Cross the silent empty ballroom,
Doubt and danger past;
Blow the cobwebs from the mirror
See yourself at last.

Put your hand behind the wainscot,
You have done your part;
Find the penknife there and plunge it
Into your false heart.

Everything She Wanted

She gazed around the deserted ballroom, harkening the faint rattle of the last departing carriages against the cobblestones. Instead of being left with the usual sense of satisfaction at the culmination of another soirée hosted for the ton, she only felt cold, only saw the gaudy finery and extravagance that surrounded her, but could not touch her.

Not anymore, at least.

She was at an utter loss as to why things should be any different now.

When she secured the proposal that was her affidavit into this life, she had been more than delighted with herself. It was a far better conquest than her sister had made. He was quite older than she was, but he was wealthy and respectable, did not drink to excess and was discreet, and he was received into the best circles society had to offer. Her every requisite in a match had been met, so what more could she need?

The state of marriage had, of course, entailed unsavory and degrading duties she was obligated to endure, though she pled a headache whenever she thought she could manage it to be spared them. Yet soon enough, when they resulted in the much-desired heir, his attentions declined drastically, and she was relieved.

From then on, her husband spent a great deal more time at his club, or at the very least sequestered in his billiards room. So long as she had ample pin money to spend and free reign to orchestrate their social calendar, his indifference in spending time with her unless for appearances' sake was of little concern. He did regard their son, christened Jonathan for himself, with a bit more warmth, but even that had its limits. At the first hint of a wail or any show of a less than placid temperament, the infant would be shunted back to his nurse and dismissed until the next time it struck his fancy to have the boy in his presence.

She herself had almost no hand in raising her only child; that was a job for the servants. Really, she showed very little interest in him at all, except to have him brought out and exhibited for a quarter of an hour or so when the society ladies came to call. When he was older and attending Eton, she did on occasion wonder at the inexplicable twinge she would feel when Jonathan wrote to ask more often than not whether he could spend his holidays in Nottinghamshire with her brother, his wife, and their three children. Nonetheless, she would reply in the positive, save if his father wished him home, summarily dismiss it from her thoughts, and return to planning tea or some other pressing engagement she was to have with Lady So-and-So.

Now, Jonathan was in his final year at Cambridge and she rarely saw him. She did not know what kind of man her son was, what his interests were, how he spent his time, and it disturbed her every so often to think of it. It also rankled her more than she could say that he continued to prefer to spend time with the Bingleys—and undoubtedly by extension the Darcys as well—at Verburry than at home.

Her husband had retired for the night long before, and as she reached her own rooms, she paused before the looking glass. There were shocks of silver shot through her dark hair, rather less than would be expected for a woman of her age, but she took care to hide them by proxy of whatever coiffures and headdresses happened to be in fashion just the same. Her high-sculpted cheekbones were emphasized with a generous application of rouge and her general complexion was still clear, with the exception of a few sagging wrinkles around her mouth. Her lips seemed to purse inherently under this scrutiny, making the lines appear deeper. The dress she was wearing, an elaborate affair of heavy brocade and Andalusian sleeves, was one she had made especially for the evening at the finest modiste London had to offer, and her throat, her wrists, any skin left exposed was dripping with jewels.

All in all, she should have been pleased with what she saw, but the only thing Caroline Seward, née Bingley, could feel as she looked upon her own reflection was detached, hollow, and a sort of bitter disappointment that welled up between her teeth until it tasted like a tarnished shilling. She blinked as though she did not recognize what the looking glass was showing her, then brought a hand up to her own cheek as if seeing herself at last.

The sudden realization that there was the same air of garish artificiality about herself that had struck her about the ballroom décor crept upon her before she could stop it.

She turned away, pretending none of it would matter in the morning.

End Author's Notes

I know, I was surprised by the appalling lack of Elizabeth and Darcy in this one too. The frak?

This is my personal interpretation of Caroline's "comeuppance," as it were. No public set downs or humiliation, no spinsterhood or barrenness or even horrific death. Just the lonely, shallow existence that she always aspired to, caught up in her own materialism and inflated sense of self-worth until it dawns upon her that she's miserable, but it's too late and she's too proud to do anything about it. It's really the worst fate that I can think of for her, or anyone.